


See My Lady Home

by Replica_Jester



Series: The Path the Maker Sets Before Us [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Boken Circle, Death, Death of a loved one, F/M, Gen, Kinloch Hold, Minor Character Death, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Replica_Jester/pseuds/Replica_Jester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Templar Cullen Rutherford endures dreams of false hope within the blood magic prison placed around him after witnessing the death of Solona Amell, the mage at Kinloch Hold who stole his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See My Lady Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eravalefantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A New Rule for Ferelden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997605) by [Replica_Jester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Replica_Jester/pseuds/Replica_Jester). 



> This piece is a _sort of_ one-shot within a series. In Cullen's point of view, this takes place directly before, during and after the interaction of Cullen when he is imprisoned by Uldred's unbreakable magic cage, as (Cousland) Warden finds him nearing the end of the quest A Broken Circle. It was supposed to be within [ Chapter 28 ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4997605/chapters/12735770) of my DAO fic New Rule, a tag-a-long piece, but I put it off and it ended up being as long as an entire chapter itself. 
> 
> This is a new format of writing for me. To reduce confusion, it should read:  
> \-----Regular-type font is realtime for Cullen (every odd section)  
> \-----Italics are memories/dreams. (every even section)  
> \-----Prayers are also in italics.  
> \-----realtime and memories/dreams are separated by spacers.
> 
> For Eravalefantasy, for her never-ending encouragement, even if it's just telling me to get sleep.

* * *

 

His feet drag. Dead weight in his arms.

_Dead._

 

* * *

 

_They almost tumble over each other when they all try to stop around the corner at the same spot. The abomination is not aware of their presence yet. Purple and white bolts of fright and desperation attack like daggers thrown from blind wielders._

_Mages! There are mages still fighting! They_ haven’t _all given in to the evil of blood magic! The Knight-Commander is wrong!_

_“What do we do? Do we still kill them?”_

_“No! Not if they’re fighting_ against _the abominations! Right? Cullen, am I right?”_

_Cullen cannot answer. It’s not safe. They have no idea the sensory range of abominations. There are already bodies on the floor, mages and Templars alike. He will not risk being caught, not until the mages weaken it. Three Templars are no match for even one abomination. There is nothing simple about any of this._

 

* * *

 

Heavy spirals hang from a head that lolls at his shoulder.

 _Not her._  

 

* * *

 

_"No! Stop! What are you doing?” a voice that makes his heart flip. She’s still alive! Andraste has heard him!_

_“Stop it! Do you want to die from this thing? From one of_ us _gone mad? I don’t!”_

_“If you do, you’ll become one of them!” she screams in frustration through her teeth and doesn’t even bother using her staff. Ice sparkles nearly as pure and as holy as the Prophet’s holy flame itself. “Don’t just stand there! Kill it!”_

_“With what? It just killed them both!”_

_“You’re a sodding mage! Kill it with fire!”_

 

* * *

 

He has carried a dead body before. It did not hurt like she does.

_Why her?_

 

* * *

 

_Her scream echoes throughout the hall. The shrill cry for help raises the hair on the back of his neck. Then...nothing. Silence._

_Cullen screams her name before he even recognizes his own voice or the scraping in his throat._

_And now there are two abominations. She lies on the floor and now there are two because the one she trusted was weak. Cullen’s blood boils up from the knot in his belly. Not her._

_“No!” His feet are moving, they know where to go. His sword is ready, but he hardly needs it._

 

* * *

 

She gives off no warmth. He should be able to feel even a little, but there is nothing. Her head tips back and his knees stagger him. He is barely able to catch his fall in a doorway missing its host.

He rests her limp body on his knee. His hand shakes as he tilts her head back into the crook of his shoulder. There is nothing left of her. Even through the quilted underside of his glove he can feel how unnaturally smooth her wrinkled skin is. It catches on the fabric and drags, pulling as if he was touching his great-grandmother’s face, not the face of a young woman. He is afraid of breaking her skin if he brushes the dark tendrils off her face.

_She is still beautiful._

_Please, Maker, no! Don’t let it be so! Anyone but her!_

 

* * *

 

_He did not need his sword. The Maker must have bestowed a holy strength the Chantry does not know of. He used his shield first, next his hands. A Holy Smite so filled with the retribution of the Maker it shook the very stone beneath his feet._

_Now he is alone._

_He kneels down over her body. Frail. Thin. Her very being has been sucked dry, all for the use of a weak mage who gave in. Blood magic. Her own kind, not even a monster yet when it robbed her of life. Limbs narrow like a child’s, the corners and curves of her very bones are no longer hidden from her skin. She has been made un-whole. Even her staff, as he gathers the pieces to lay over her front, is broken. Drops fall from his face on to deep turquoise robes as he folds delicate arms over the remains of her staff. He is afraid he is going to break her._

_He falls over her lifeless form as a sob of heartbreak sings about the room. Not her. Anyone but her! Maker, please! Let this be a dream! Let this be a trick of my mind! Please reverse this! Let her breathe! Please? He checks her eyelids, listens for breath, tries to feel for breath, tries to coax it out by hovering his ear above her mouth._

_Everything is wrong! No. No no no no no! This is isn’t real! It’s not real! I haven’t even had time yet..._

_Solona._

 

* * *

 

Her kindness snagged his admiration, her empathy his love. She showed him patience when words had failed him, made him appear a stuttering, brainless dunce. She always greeted him like she was welcoming him home, always asked how his day was going, as if he’d never once made a fool of himself. She had always smelled like elfroot blossoms, cherry blossoms and lemon.

She smells like that now.  

 

* * *

 

_She is heavier than he expects. Not because she is dead weight, but because he never expected he would have to do this. She was not supposed to die. She was supposed to grow old in the tower, she was supposed to rise to First Enchanter, and he was supposed to become her Knight-Commander. They were supposed to grow old together._

_He is not supposed to be carrying her corpse._

 

* * *

 

He never had a chance to tell her. At first he’d been afraid; in training, Templars had been warned, no fraternizing with the mages, punishment would ensue. He’d feared punishment, but when he’d witnessed unspoken relations and affairs, even just the using of others for intimate pleasure go unpunished...she had made him feel any punishment for falling in love would be worth it. Then his tongue twisted around her. He’d tried reciting a Canticle to her once; _You have seen me when no other would recognize my face,_ from the Canticle of Trials, 1:11; in hope she knew the following line and would understand his confession. He never had the chance to find out, though.

And now he never would.  

She deserves a pyre. She deserves a sanctified funeral, she alone stood in the Maker’s light when all others gave in to darkness. She deserves the blessings of the Maker upon her soul.

_But not before I end the one who allowed this._

 

* * *

 

_Ringlets the color of chocolate his grandmother brought back from Orlais glisten in the sunlight as she stands at the window. This is the fourth time he has found her in the Chantry. The first time was upon his first day on a full post, the Chantry hall was in his watch, she’d said she came because the Sister’s silence was a comfort away from all the noise in the other halls, she asked his name. The second time, she’d had a hard day, the Sister prayed over her as she wept; Cullen had stopped in the middle of his rounds to kneel at an alcove and pray for her heart to lighten. The third time she’d been reading against a wall nearly hidden by a bookshelf, she’d glanced up with a pleasant ‘ello, asked if he’d ever read Transfigurations 10; he’d recited it for her, she’d stared as if she expected him to reprimand her for not already knowing it; he only told her it was lovely._

_This fourth time, he had not seen her yet as he sees her now. She is gazing up toward the heavens with sunbeams showering her aglow like she is Andraste Herself receiving the Maker’s direct blessing. Without looking up, she asks if he’s ever seen the Maker, she calls Cullen by name. He tries to ask how she knows it’s him, but the words don’t come out right. By the time he is able to force the last word from his trembling lips and musters the courage to peek at her, her head finally turns to him. She does not acknowledge his diction and etiquette have spilled their own guts upon his lips. She says the sound of his steps always slow as he nears the doorway, as if he worries not to startle whomever is inside; she says she appreciates this, the other Templars are not so kind to her._

 

* * *

 

_His footsteps were kind._

Cullen takes care to step kindly for her now. But he cannot tarry. Uldred cares nothing for the people he has stripped of life. Cullen places her body as gently as he can for as quick as he needs to move. Thinking her safest in a corner, he dares one last fleeting look before he turns to make the Senior Enchanter pay for his betrayal.

One more step, no longer fussing not to frighten mages, and a shimmer walls up around Cullen. It is a circle entrapping him, about the width of his outstretched arms. He tries to stick his hand through, but it burns, pulling a yelp from his throat. It has burned a hole right through his glove, through flesh.

_Maker of my Prophet, what is this?_

 

* * *

 

_She survives!_

_He is almost laughing of relief. He knew - hoped - she had the strength to overcome demonic temptation. He was so overjoyed he couldn’t even be upset with the Knight-Captain. Cullen’s daily check-ins in the Chantry quarters to glimpse Solona were not unnoticed; first he had been reassigned to stand guard of the first floor apprentice living quarters during the day when the students were learning, then he had been chosen as Executioner if Solona had returned from her Harrowing possessed. Punishments, he knows. But he cannot be upset right now. She has passed her test to resist demonic possession, and she still sleeps on the first floor; he would see her...eventually, if not on his off-duty hours in the Chantry. Eventually was a better answer to prayer than the outcome he’d feared._

_Footsteps echo down the hall. Cullen straightens and stands ready for inspection, for even quicker muffled scuffling on the stone floor did not always mean the footsteps of a mage, quite a few of the seasoned Templars had learned to tiptoe nearly undetected in order to catch illicit activities in progress._

_Solona. A knot forms in Cullen’s throat. He is genuinely surprised to see her, she is supposed to be in the library until the next ring of the Chantry’s bell. He was not prepared to speak to her._

_“Ser Cullen.” her walk slows, she seems equally caught off guard. “You’re here now? I suppose this explains why I no longer see you in the Chantry.” she stops in front of him to stare cautiously. “Why are you down here? I thought guarding Apprentice Hall was for Knight-Lieutenant ranks and higher?” she is familiar with the ranks, yet calls him Ser anyway._

_The words are not emerging like he wishes them to. He feels them tangle up inside his throat. This is a new experience. He’d been starting to feel it their last few encounters, but he figured it would pass. The sensation has_ not _passed. He feels it now, pulse quickening, his armor suddenly too hot, mind blank other than her and the desire to see her, to stare. He wants to memorize her._

_Feeble whispers trip over themselves. “I, erm...I was r-reassigned...”_

_She hesitates, and he hopes it is not disapproval. “Is it because of me?” His own hesitation is out of the rising nervousness; he has never been utterly alone with her before. She suspects his inability to answer_ is _his answer, however, “I see. Ser Cullen, I am truly sorry. I never meant -”_

_“No!” he interjects. “Er, n-no, no, not at all,” he insists. He does not want her to blame herself, she shouldn’t. If anything, he knew better and yet he reached out, she always seemed just as lonely as he was. “C-congratulations on your Harrowing, Lady Am-Amell. I am...relieved to know you have...pass-passed it.” he hopes she won’t notice the wince inside, his shame at such pitiful stammering._

_“Lady?” she echoes with more surprise than when she found him standing here._

_“Y-yes. I took the lib...the liberty of research...I see now it was a mistake, I ap-apologize. But you are of noble blood!” he gushes. “Did you not know? From the Free Marches. Amell is a known-a known name in Kirkwall, in fact.” perhaps she won’t consider him such a pry now with this revelation._

_“I did not know that.” she lightly shakes her head, and he feels his nerves freeze up. Every curl tumbling down her head shines in the active sconces along the walls. She reminds him of a hearth, of home. She is a comfort to gaze upon, not to mention the closest thing he has to a friend, to see her now nearly hurts, knowing what he might have been forced to do. Her eyes travel down and around his figure, and he feels his face flush. Her words make him wonder if she can read his mind, “Were you there? At my Harrowing? The hooded Templar?” she whispers._

_His heart is heavy, he does not like dwelling on this. “Th-they picked me as the Templar to be the one...to...if you became an ab-abom-” Maker, he does not like calling her this! Even considering the possibility feels like he might as well be striking her instead. The word is barely audible to even his own ears, “abomination.”_

_“You would have killed me?” her face distorts as if she had not expected him to be capable of it. As if she is suddenly reminded he is a Templar and she is just a mage. She even takes a step back._

_“It’s-it’s not-I swear to you, I didn’t want to!” he insists. Slow, heavy footsteps from down the hall remind Cullen he is not alone, even if he is out of sight. He forces stricter composure upon himself. “I’m grateful you are w-you are well, My Lady. Please believe me,” he pleads quietly. It is unusual for him to address her this way, let alone any mage, but he cares not for the unfair laws of nobility that strip a mage of her rightful title._

_“Did you think I would become one?” she asks._

_“I never stopped praying,” he admits. “I had faith in you, Lady Amell. I knew we would see each other again.”_

Maker above forgive him! Did he really say that?

_“Cullen, do you mean it?” she asks._

_“Of course I do,” he is surprised at his own confidence. It appears when a person realizes how quickly the chance to express love can be torn from opportunity, frailty abandons them to let such expression flow. It feels like a flow indeed, an urge, like the Maker is nudging him. “I should have said this weeks ago,” he tells her, stepping forward. He takes her hands._

Took her hands? They held hands? How could he have forgotten this?

_She repeats his name, her eyes searching his face. Rare blue, like the purest sapphires held up against the sun on the brightest summer morning. Never were there eyes like hers. Never did any other eyes gaze at him with such affection._

_“Solona, my heart strained as I stood over you. I never had the nerve to tell you...but I must. Before it is too late-”_

_“You were sent here for me,” she says. Her fingers find his face, as soft as the first blossom of spring. She draws nearer until he feels her breath. She is serenity, she is warmth, appreciation. “I know it’s true. I never felt at home here until you arrived. I know the Maker sent you to me.”_

The Maker sent him to Kinloch for her?

_Yes. He would take it._

Wait. He had applied for Denerim. He was _going_ to Denerim, Kinloch Hold just happened to be where all Ferelden recruits began their careers. He would’ve served here anyway.

_“Cullen?” she gently turns his face. This is what he wants, though. He’s wanted this for months. Her touch is welcoming, like she always welcomes him. Her aura is relief security, just as he always feels at home in her presence. This is her, this feeling can’t be fabricated. He has wanted her affections for so long. He has wanted to offer his own for so long._

_“My heart breaks when I find you crying,” he manages in a whisper. “I wish I could...I don’t know how to say this. I’ve never felt...anything for anyone before.”_

_“I have time,” she insists, “and it is only us, here.”_

They are alone? He could have sworn there were footsteps, the Knight-Lieutenant down at the other end of the hall...

_His steel boots softly clank and echo about the stone walls as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. It is only him, only them. She is right, there is no other._

_“Tell me, Cullen?” she pleads gently. She searches his eyes like she desperately wants him to tell her he feels the same as she. “What do you want to tell me?”_

_He allows himself to reach up. He cannot feel the texture of her hair, but it slides around the steel of his gloves like refined silk. Through the quilts in the underside fabric however, he can feel the heat of her skin. She closes her eyes with a deep breath and a sigh. She looks like she’s melting under his touch, though all he’s doing is tracing her cheeks, her jaw, her chin. Her head tilts as his fingers return to the hook of her jaw, shoulders curl in toward him. Maker, she is so beautiful. Surely another reassignment is worth allowing himself this one moment in her love, is worth discovering she feels the same about him._

_“I was terrified when they made me Executioner. I’m so glad you’re all right. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to live without you.”_

_Pure sapphires shine up at him, glistening with adoration,_ safety. _She trusts him._

_“I care for you. More...more than I know how to say...”_

_“Oh, Cullen...” she pushes up before he realizes what’s about to happen._

_Soft. Her lips are so soft against him. He has no idea how to kiss her, but she is soft. She moves slowly, patient with his awkwardness once again, hugging her lips around his. Waiting for him, like she always does at the Chantry window. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just moves his mouth like hers._

_He is melting now. A surge is circling through every stretch of his body, through every hair, his toes, every bone, ringing his hears, curling him so he fits perfectly into the small arms she winds around him. It’s like revelation, like the hand of Maker is opening his eyes, rather his heart. His chest is swelling, his armor is much too tight. He can almost cry, the pressure against his bones is so sweet in giving and surrender it almost hurts. He feels like he might burst out, like he has been locked away in a shell of ice and she is melting it, thinning it, opening a way for him._

He kissed her? He truly kissed her? Oh, Maker, please forgive him! How did he forget _this?_

_Another pooling, one he does not expect. His groin is like a warming volcano. He has felt this before, but he did not know a simple kiss could ignite it. Praying has always been the answer in the past._

_...But he doesn’t want it to go away, now. She can help, now._

_She wants to help. It feels like she does. Her lips move faster, lock harder, pull further. He relinquishes to the change of pace. She slips the tip of her tongue to the bottom of his top lip, and for a moment he freezes when a rush of heat pulses in his smalls. He chases her mouth when she starts to retreat, and she gasps, closes her arms around his neck over the top of his armor. He finds her tongue, tastes her, and she returns the wet, sloppy dance like she’s funneling right into him. She is need,_ his _need, she is like the heavens. She is magical._

_He can feel the heat of her arms seep through her sleeves. His hands slide down her side, no longer room between them to keep an arm up to stroke her face. Heavy breath. She presses into him with every curve. The tender bulge of his groin seeks her hips when his hands squeeze._

He never did that! Maker, no! He never once _groped_ her! He is no undisciplined hound!

_“Cullen...” she breathes hot on his lips. Her breath is sweet and spicy, tasting of honey and the new tea from Tevinter. A delicate thigh rises to the thick cloth wrap topping his hips. She hooks her knee around him._

No! That never happened! How is he seeing this? He never once touched her! He was never inappropriate! He was _always_ a gentleman! She never threw herself at him like this! What is going on here? Is this a dream? A spell? No, Maker let it not be so! He _cannot_ be under a spell!

 

* * *

 

_"Foul and corrupt are they_

_Who have taken His gift_

_And turned it against His children._

_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._

_They shall find no rest in this world!”_ Cullen recites of the Canticle of Transfigurations. “In the name of Maker and His Most Pure, I say to you _begone_ , demons! Begone with your tricks!” he opened his eyes swiftly, and froze.

The prison. The magical prison Uldred has placed him in! It still exists! He silently cursed _mages_ in Andraste’s name. It wasn’t real, none of it was real. He’d known it. _Demons._ They almost had him.

Cullen praises the Maker out loud. Surely He has saved Cullen from the clutches of corruption. There is no other explanation.

Cullen is out of lyrium. There was no way to prepare for this, so there is no extra lyrium to strengthen the power of Andraste inside him. His sword cannot pierce this prison and it only heats his shield with the force of a stampede. He stands in the very center, inhales deeply, steals a glance at precious Solona.

He has failed her twice, now. Firstly failed to protect her from evil magic, because he allowed himself weakness in the face of uncertainty. And now she lies unprotected again after he swore to revenge so he could send her soul off with deserved blessings.

 _No!_ He will not allow himself this defeat! He takes another deep breath, begins small circles with open, facing palms. Eyelids slide shut as he feels the pressure build up between his hands. _The power of the Maker, the very power given to Andraste Herself._ He tests the strength, then builds it up more. He _must_ do this. _For Solona._ One more deep breath, flexing his fingers to tighten the stretching invisible orb of holy favor. He feels the current run all throughout him, tiny bolts of heat and strength enabling him to be the Right Hand, the _Corrector,_  of the Maker Himself. When his armor allows him no more flexibility, he sends his hands, pulsing with raw, swarming energy, out from him.

Nothing. It does nothing.

 _No. No! This is not possible!_ Cleansing Auras have never failed him before! He attempts this again, a third time, and another, each turn putting forth less effort as he realizes his motions have no effect. This prison is no ordinary spell. _Blood magic. Demons._ Cullen kicks his own shield, though immediately has to remove it from the sizzle that eats at the steel. 

Cleansing does not work, his sword is no use, what else - _Smite!_ A Holy Smite, yes!

_No! That will hurt Solona!_

His eyes land on his lost beloved. She was already hurt. Her own kind hurt her. If Cullen had rushed in earlier to Smite the abomination, she might still be alive right now. The worst damage Cullen can do to her now is give up, give in, accept the position of _prey_ to dark magic, to never allow her soul a chance at proper release into the Maker’s arms. He breathes in once more, silently calling upon the flame of Andraste to fill him, he _feels_ Her fire in his fingers once more. His armor over his fingers briefly heat and hiss when he Smites the unholy cage of magic.

 _Nothing, again. No._ He looks at Solona. Her body remains untouched. The Holy Smite never even penetrated the shimmering enclosure. _No!_ He refuses to be stuck!

Perhaps _he_ cannot escape to vanquish the evil that has destroyed his home, destroyed the one who held his heart _,_ but there is always the Maker. It is up to Cullen to pray, to rely on a miracle. It is all he can do. He can only implore the Maker will see inside him and grant him and the rest of the tower mercy. He drops to one knee and focuses the last of the power of Andraste’s flame back into his mind; hopefully the Maker will at least take this unused power and give it to someone who _can_ save the Order.

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Guide me through the blackest nights._

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked._

_Make me to rest in the warmest places._

_O Creator, see me kneel:_

_For I walk only where You would bid me._

_Stand only in places You have blessed._

_Sing only the words You place in my throat…_

 

* * *

 

_She is singing again. This is a new song, Cullen does not know the words yet, but it spreads around the younger apprentices lately. He’s not sure she even knows the words, but she hums anyway. Dum-dum-da-da... echoing out from her office, filling the corridor with warmth where the sun cannot reach. Her voice dims as do his clanking feet. She is listening for him, she knows he approaches._

_“Good afternoon, First Enchanter.”_

_A smile spreads on her face, sweet, amused. “Cullen, we go through this every day. How many times must I ask you to call me Solona?”_

_“Always one more time, my Lady.” He coaxes a giggle out of her when he dips in a bow before her._

_“I am also not very Lady-like, am I?” she smirks. Cullen cannot help the chuckle that erupts from his throat. She is definitely grinning now._

_“We’ve gone over this nearly every day, as well. My answer remains the same,” he teases._

_“Oh!” she laughs, “which secretly means ‘First Enchanter, your etiquette resembles a stubborn mabari who spends all day chasing cats up trees, but considering my bed is directly a floor above yours and you know how to manipulate the ferocity of angry storms, I’m going to hold my tongue.’”_

_Cullen meets her eyes with a grin of his own as he removes his pauldrons. He never removes his armor in front of her, but tea is impossible with shoulders guards the size barrels. “I refuse to comment on your speculation, First Enchanter.” Her giggle has not changed since they met._

_“I have not started tea, yet.”_

_“Ah. I suspected you forgot. I believe I warned you’d lose your mind, spending lunch with the teenagers.”_

_She laughs again, booming, echoing, full of joy. This is all the music he ever needs. “As a matter of fact, that Antivan black cherry-almond tea arrived today. The skittish messenger you snuck up behind? He nearly wet himself when he realized you were standing there. That would have ruined that dreadfully expensive tea you_ begged _me to order.”_

_“I never beg,” he smirks, though falls into her trap of laughter. “And I didn’t mean to scare the boy. I never intended to learn how to walk like a cat.” he steps over to the windows and draws the heavy curtains. “You have the power to control lightning and ice. Can’t you do something about all this rain?” he teases._

_She giggles once more, and he glances to find her setting the small fire pit aflame with her hand. He was raised within the Chantry to fear magic, and around the apprentices, he is truly cautious due to their lack of self-control yet. But Solona is different. She has always been different. He has never seen her magic as a danger, a weapon. It fascinates him whenever he manages to catch her channeling it. From her, he is unsure why magic should be feared. Her magic is beautiful, just like the rest of her._

_“You know it doesn’t work like that,” she corrects playfully. Their eyes lock as she approaches him. He smiles for her as she takes his hand. “You needn’t hover at the window if the rain is dreary,” she suggests. He presses his lips to the back of her hand, and the emotion in her eyes melts him._

_There are days he wants to bare himself entirely to her, cast aside his armor, push the desk against the door, carry her to the bed. He has never seen her out of her robes, and the higher she rose in rank, the more she was required to wear at once out of ceremony. They have spoken of these times. There are days like today, when the entire Tower is restless because of changing weather, when rain forces everyone to remain indoors and sharp winds demand shutters never open. Restlessness means reckless mages, which leads to irritated Templars, and Cullen and Solona happen to have no one else to pass complaints up to. The need for some kind of release is strong. It is days like this that test their patience and their sacred vows to Andraste and the Maker._

_“You can always tell me what bothers you, my love.” her fingers feather down the side of his face, brushing his unruly curls away from his eyes. Her touch turns his insides to soup every time, no matter how faint._

_They are not married. Their relations never extend past careful cuddling on straining days. On occasions when tensions rise, particularly holidays or sudden storms that thwart roof-top or dockside plans of their lower-ranking charges, Cullen and Solona have let themselves fall prey to desire of kisses so deep a fire ignites in their loins. She is always there, though, praying with him when he gives in to the nudging from the Maker to drop to his knees in forgiveness. He took his sacred vows to stay faithful to Andraste when he became a full Templar; his body and blood is the Prophet’s, but his heart and mind he has given to Solona. She took her own sacred vows for his sake, so he would not break his by allowing her his attention. Within these vows they may embrace in emotion alone. They are chaste, but content. He believes it helps them keep a clear mind to guide and guard his Templars and her mages._ She _seems content with him in this role. And this way, they can be family; they are like Father and Mother, only with an unbelievable amount of children he often loses count of._

_“Darling?” she insists. Her love sings in every letter from her mouth. In truth, as long as she is there, there is nothing he cannot endure. She has been his breath of relief from the beginning._

_“Nothing worse than the children already tearing each other up downstairs,” he smiles for her. “Nothing the sight of you hasn’t already fixed.” he brings her hand up to his lips once more, and the sapphires of her eyes sparkle and glow, even without the sun pouring through them._

_They do nothing for a moment save memorize each other's gaze. He brushes aside the tendrils that fall around her face. She is finally graying, taking her longer to start than he, but it has never deterred her beauty. Each new strand without color means proof of another day they have spent together. Every morning she is there for Chantry devotion, each night they say bedtime prayers together, not to mention their moments like now, tea or chapter books together. Every moment with her is perfect. Despite what rumors tell them they are missing out on, he has no regrets. He would not choose another life full of freedom to run his body wild if she could not be there in that life as she is now. She is perfect. She makes his life perfect._

_As soon as their foreheads meet in tender rest, the kettle whistles. The high-pitched scream make Solona jump, same as every day. He smiles as she giggles. He swears the kettle gets louder, more annoying as soon as she leaves him. Here she is again, making every struggle easier for him just by being there. She is his perfection._

 

* * *

 

Screaming. Not a kettle, though. Pain.

 _Pain?_ Cullen opens his eyes to finds he has been rocking himself upon one knee.

 _What was all that? What just happened?_ Cullen looks around. A strange wall of shimmering magic circles him. What is that...is that flesh? _Ugh._ Flesh, sacks of flesh hanging from the walls, bubbling up through the seams where the walls met the floors. Maker, it’s everywhere! And a body -- his heart drops to the bottom of his gut.

“Solona?” he whispers.

_No. No, no, no! That’s not possible! This has to be a dream! She was gray! We were growing old together! She was First Enchanter!_

The curls, the turquoise robes splashed with gold, maroon and snow fox fur. Solona’s robes. She altered them herself, added the fur and maroon. None other had _those_ robes. _Not real? Not vibrant and graying and in his arms, but...dead? No. No, Maker, why must this be so?_

Another screech makes him jump. Sounds coming from the Harrowing chambers. Screaming, animalistic yet fully human, like the sounds of a man being ripped open, dismembered, _torture,_ heinous crimes.

_Maker, if it is within Your will to save this tower for those who may still yet breathe, I beseech You in their name, turn Your gaze on them, in Your mercy see them home!_

Then, _savage roaring,_ as if feral monsters emerge from what could only be sadistic experiments, sinister and atrocious, _inhuman_. Cullen’s blood runs cold through him. _Oh Maker preserve him!_ He knows where he’s heard that sound before. His head slowly turns toward the shriveled body in Solona’s robes. Cullen heard those very sounds when Solona’s final screams were made.

 _No no no! Not more of them! Not again!_ He squeezes his eyes shut tight, presses his hands to his head so hard his skull hurts. _Pain_ , his own. Physical pain will keep him aware of the present. It has to. He has no other defenses left. To have another...whatever that was, a dream? Of him, of Solona, a dream of them in a perfect future together... _Maker, he can’t take that again._

 _Many are those who wander in sin,_ Cullen beings to recite the Canticles again. This has cleared his head before, has worked in times of lust and confusion and anxiety. He prays now, between lines of the Canticles, prays for someone to break in, a herald for Andraste, _Maker, though I am but one, I have called in Your name, And those who come to serve will know Your glory,_ someone who understands the need to destroy the evil he hears from the other room. Praying for a person of strict prejudice who is not afraid to toss mages aside.

In truth, it is not mages; Solona is... _was_...proof that mages _can_ choose righteousness. But right now, there are no mages left in this tower to be trusted. The ones _she_ trusted betrayed her! They all must die!

Crashing, clanking. Cracking and pounding like the very stone is breaking. He can even feel vibrations through the floor. Cries, grunts, yells of battle. _Swords_ , _blades, the sounds of a shield!_ The Maker has heard him! Andraste sends help!

Cullen continues to pray and recite out loud. Whoever these saviors are, they need all the aid Cullen can muster, it is the most he can offer. Divine faith is the only sword Cullen can provide. Andraste’s prayers on the battle field helped win her war, after all.

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains._

_I have heard the sound--_

“Cullen?” a surprised voice, a woman. It rings familiar, yet far away as another dream. “Can you hear me?” she asks.

He refuses to look up. Solona was also a voice inside his head, the blood magic of all these maleficars has proven those tricks! “Stay back! I know what you are, demon! You will not fool me again! I will stay strong!” his voice is not as strong as he feels it should be.

“He's been addled,” a voice he remembers all too well, the Senior Enchanter. “Cullen, it's me, Wynne. What happened to you?”

These demons are clever, trying to use voices he _should_ trust. But he can trust no mage now, not after he saw how _weak_ they are, how easy they all give in. Mages _betrayed_ Solona; he cannot trust the Senior Enchanter either, for her sake. Again he prays out loud:

_Foul and corrupt are they_

_Who have taken His gift,_

_And turned it against His children,_ he is surprised at how weak he sounds, as if he has only been woken from a very short sleep.  

“This boy is exhausted,” the Senior Enchanter’s voice spoke again. “I've never seen anything like this barrier. If Templar powers cannot take it down...” _A clever evil, trying to trick him with false compassion and surprise._

“Cullen? Do you remember me?” the first voice, the one he cannot remember where he’s heard it before.

“Enough visions! I refuse to play this game!” Cullen cries out. _They are evil! Maker, please! My Most Holy, I beg You! I am Your faithful servant, please save me from these monsters!_

“How do you know him?” a male he has never heard before.

“Cullen, where is she? Where is Amell?” the first woman again. Cullen freezes, only then realizes his hair is tangled in the joints of the armor on his fingers and he has been rocking.

 _How does she know that name?_ He resists the temptation to glance backwards to his withered beloved.

“Amell? Why would you be asking _him?”_ the Senior Enchanter asks.

“Where is she?” the voice repeats. 

“Stop your games! I will _not_ submit! Too far! You have seen too much already! _O Maker, hear my cry, guide me through the blackest nights! Lift me from a world of pain! My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace!_ Be gone from me, demon!” Cullen opens his eyes. They do not leave. _Not a dream?_ “I don't understand, that's always worked. Why aren't you gone?” He stands to get a better look. People he does not recognize. _No, wait,_ he does...Senior Enchanter Wynne is indeed here. An elf, a...giant rock person. _Maker! Is that a golem? What’s it doing in the tower?_ As if there isn’t enough destruction!

“I am no demon, Cullen,” the voice he can’t quite place comes from a woman with pale hair chopped like a man’s. “Do you remember me?”

Cullen begins to shake his head, but halts. _Yes, he remembers._ The Spy, the noble woman...Cousland, who successfully portrayed a Templar recruit nearing her vows. She had been assigned to make rounds with Cullen in the library and basement. She slipped away one night and he’d caught her sifting through the forbidden artifacts, though on the verge of withdrawal. He decided not to report her only out of sympathy for the pain overtaking her body as the lyrium fled, while he lectured her in the empty basement corridor. He found a surprising ally because of this act of leniency; he learned to wean himself of lyrium to supply her addiction and when he’d let slip his feelings for Solona, the Spy became a confidant. She protected Solona for him when he could not. After he’d been reassigned to the docks, rumor quickly spread the Spy had killed a handful of apprentices. The Spy had been banished from Kinloch Hold for murder, but Cullen later overheard others saying the dead apprentices had been males harassing Solona.

Cullen frowns, but he is not upset by her presence. Instead he feels if the Spy had been here still, this entire mess with blood magic would not have ensued. The Spy would have ended them all at the very first signs of wickedness. She had never liked mages. He is confident she would still protect Solona for him now, if Solona still breathed.

“All too well. The Pretender. They don't like you, you need to leave, they have orders to detain you.” Cullen does not want her punished, she’d been a friend when he’d needed one, it is all that matters.

“I remember him,” a ginger-haired man roughly Cullen’s height. Cullen has no memory of this man. It must have been in his first few weeks at the tower.

“Where is Amell?” the Spy asks.

Cullen looks from the Spy to the ginger to the Senior Enchanter. “Gone.” He pauses again. “Just as you should be! Even without the chaos you caused, you should be gone! There is no one left! This place is not safe!”

“I know. We've cleared the floors. Where is Uldred?” the Spy says.

A knot instantly forms inside of him, larger and harder than the tower itself. “He's there -” he points to the door, “in the Harrowing chamber, with the entire seniority of mages. I alone fought my way and survived this far! There is no one else left to keep them in place, they have all turned to blood magic and become abominations, I _know_ it! I have seen one change, the exact sounds come from inside there! You _must kill_ them!”

“What? No!” Wynne cries out. “If Irving is still alive, we can't kill him!”

“He's right.” the Spy says to the Senior Enchanter. Cullen’s insides give a brief sigh of relief; he is right, her presence here earlier would have changed the tides completely. _She_ is the one to end this mess. A slap in the face to Irving for throwing her out those years ago. A few bodies are a generous price to pay when things like blood magic destroy the home of hundreds of people.  

“I _knew_ this would happen!” Wynne cries angrily. “You can't kill the First Enchanter! He's the only person able to hold the rest of the mages together! Greagoir himself knows this!”

“You can't spare them!” Cullen argues. “There are no more Templars! They have killed all of us! They can't be allowed to live! They are too dangerous!”

“You don't think any got inside with them?” the ginger asks.

“If they did, they are gone now! Uldred himself shut me away here! Blood magic! Demons! They are all abominations! I've watched them come out of the Harrowing chamber! They are monstrosities! They _have_ to die!” Cullen insists.

The Senior Enchanter continues to rant, aggression and accusations, all toward the Spy. Cullen tries to intervene - Cousland is right! They _have_ to listen to her! The Spy quickly grows upset; Cullen watches her. The ginger man tries to calm her, even tells the Senior Enchanter to back down. Wynne is wheeling hard at the Spy, though; Cullen has never seen this side of the Senior Enchanter, _irrational, taunting._ Just one more reason not to trust mages anymore.

The ginger man picks up the Spy, moves her off away from the party. For a moment, Cullen watches in _envy._ She has someone. She never trusted people, exactly what Cullen has a hard time doing. She has someone to comfort her, the ginger is _hiding_ her from the chaos. Cullen is reminded of himself as he _should_ be, though. This should be him and Solona over there, his arms around her, comforting her with whispers and gentle rocking. Instead...Cullen’s eyes glaze up as he allows himself to peek back at the one person he was ever driven to protect.

The elf speaks to Cullen. He asks about the floors, about traps, if he has any advice for fighting the abominations. Cullen has a hard time hearing the elf, though. Every other word is drowned out by another mage, a wild-looking woman who does not care for the Senior Enchanter. The elf rolls his eyes and the stone golem groans. The Senior Enchanter scolds the elf, the golem and the wild mage, all of whom seem to favor the Spy’s decision.

Cullen tries to push in his own words, “The bodies! The bodies are evidence enough this madness has to end! How can you stand there between the dead and say magic is worth saving?” but Wynne doesn’t want to listen to reason. It is when Wynne blames _messes like this_ on the Spy that Cullen boils inside. _How can she say this? This was her own people - mages, weak mages! This is not the work of normal humans!_

Cullen interrupts with a voice that sounds nothing like the exhaustion he expressed just moments ago. "Silence! You are not worthy of your title anymore, Senior Enchanter! _You left_ with Uldred to Ostagar - you _knew_ what he became, you _had_ to have known! You can’t tell me a mage of your experience can’t tell a blood mage when you see one, when you _travel_ with one! Only after you both returned did this mess start in the first place! _You_ were _here_ , you should have known better! All these mages who turned to blood magic were _your_ responsibility to teach!” Cullen’s voice is echoing around him, possibly the whole room. He sounds _commanding_. Wynne’s flinching stirs up a sort of authority he realizes he has over her now, as possibly the last surviving Templar in front of possibly the last surviving mage _. Cullen understands what it meant to be a Knight-Commander now, why Greagoir had insisted on purging everything. “_ And now your negligence has cost us our Order, the Tower, our home! You weren't the only one who lived here! Your lack of commitment to control your kind has cost us everything! All you did was hide behind your barrier. I _know_ that was you! You were the only mage at this Circle to teach barriers! You are just as much to blame as Uldred! By _ignoring_ the signs of his betrayal and then _running_ and _hiding_ , you are _just_ as much to blame!"

Wynne may as well be slapped. "Now listen here, young man. I have been at this tower longer than you have-"

Cullen interrupts her again with no concern. Any surviving mages in the tower were beyond respect. "Then you should have fought _twice_ as hard! I took down two abominations with my bare hands to try to save one of _your_ kind! It’s my job to stop abominations, but it’s _your_ job to prevent them from becoming so! I was doing your job for you! While you were off gallivanting across Ferelden's open plains, everyone died! You abandoned your duty and because of it the others who desperately needed your guidance turned to blood magic! You have no choice but to kill any that remain! None of them are pure anymore!"

The ginger man seems to be in charge. He orders the others to save all who can be saved. Cullen tries to argue this, but this ginger says he needs numbers to fight the Blight, he’s taking as much help as he can find. The Spy has no words for Cullen when he seeks her gaze; surely _she_ can talk her comforter into sense! But the ginger is adamant and rushes his party onward. Cullen watches the last hope for Kinloch Hold disappear into the Harrowing chambers. All Cullen can do now is pray.

_I am not alone. Even_

_As I stumble on the path_

_With my eyes closed, yet I see_

_The Light is here..._

It feels like hours they are in there. When the shimmering prison around him fades and evaporates, Cullen can hardly believe his eyes. He tests the reach of his arms more times than he can count, but when he is convinced the barrier is down, he rushes to secure his sword and shield. Then, _Solona_...

He kneels over her body when raggedy mages tumble down the stairs. Cullen freezes, half wary, fearing the Spy’s party has saved the wrong lot, and the other half of him trying to remain inconspicuous to hide Solona. He doesn’t want the First Enchanter to take her from him.

The golem notices him as the Spy and her party assist the mages past Cullen’s corner. The Spy takes notice also. She leaves the side of the ginger man with an open mouth as if she wants to speak to him, but the sight of Solona’s frail body freezes her as well. It doesn’t take her long to silently figure out why Cullen is kneeling over the body of a wrinkled woman. Cullen doesn’t need to explain anything to her; when he finally turns his head, he recognizes false hope and loss and mourning in her stare. He can’t feel her hand on his shoulder, but he feels a gentle weight upon his pauldron. There are no words when your heart lays still before your feet.

The sun descends by the time the Spy and her ginger leader escort their party out of the stone tower doors. She argued for Cullen again, twice in fact. She had walked with him as he cradled Solona’s shrunken body carefully down to the entry hall. She had argued in favor of the Templars regaining dominance over the remaining mages, that was the only way to prevent maleficar treachery again. But her ginger friend agreed with Knight-Commander Greagoir’s decision on accepting First Enchanter Irving’s word, all was well with the survivors. The ginger man was swayed, and so the Spy was swayed too, but she _had_ tried to defend Cullen’s reason for demanding the mages be wiped out. The Knight-Commander then questioned why Cullen had carried the body of a mage after the _fuss_ he’d just made; Cullen requested he be allowed to set a small pyre for the one deserving mage in the tower. The Spy argued Greagoir again, more passionately than Cullen was able to. She insisted Cullen was a righteous man with a clear mind set on the Maker, and to have made it so far to Uldred while carrying the body of a mage should be proof the Maker wants _him_ to protect _this person_ with proper blessings. The one mage in the tower who fought against corruption when she had not the skill to fight alone deserved a proper funeral. She argued until Greagoir gave in, and Cullen was grateful for the first time since he heard Solana’s final words.   

Now, Cullen stands outside. He watches the rowboats take them into the freedom of the world. When he can no longer distinguish the Spy from the others, he turns.

_Solona._

He lays her carefully upon a bed of firewood and straw, as comfortable as he is able to construct it, with a little makeshift lump of hay for a pillow. He folds her arms, _he is still afraid he will break her,_ gently cups her thin fingers into fists over her bosoms; this should keep her splintered staff in place. Tears spill out as he dresses her curls around her ears, her shoulders, tucking the chocolate waves around her neck so she won’t be cold.

_Oh, Solona..._

His hand shakes. He’s almost afraid to light the straw. _What if she really lives?_ He is terrified of hurting her. But even he can’t convince himself of false hope. She has no pulse. She _is_ _cold_. What is left of her eyes, though he closed them long ago, are starting to sink back into her skull. Still, he trembles as he touches the torch around the bottom of small pyre, beyond clear sight with tear-filled eyes and no sense of depth as he’s trying not to watch himself set her aflame.

There are no stories like this within the tower, no rumors to pick advice from. No one has to carry their beloved into fire. No one can tell him they know it will get better. No one here _loves_. Except for her. She loved them all. Her love called to him and taught him to love her. The only person who would tell him this might hurt is the one in front of him reflecting orange, gold, _fire._

He feels like he deserves the chill that settles around the lake. He doesn’t even have a necklace to remember her by.

Cullen’s voice waves as often as the hungry flames before him. It is harder to speak than he ever imagined. He refuses to let her body drift into the abyss without blessing her soul, though. His final offer of protection.

_O Maker, hear me now:_

_Bless this soul I’ve lain before You._

_She alone stood in Your name,_

_Pure and true, and ever worthy._

_My Maker, know her heart:_

_Take from her this life of sorrow._

_Lift her from this world of pain._

_Judge her worthy of Your endless pride._

_Within Your grace and knowledge of her strength, show her now_

_The peace of Your benediction._

_Show her Your Light, lead her safely_

_From the path of this world into the next._

_She trusts in You, she fought for You, Fire was her water..._

He stops to wipe his face to clear his sight for a last look before the flames hide her. There is not enough time. All he wants is more time...

 _Fire_ is _her water._

_Let her follow this fire into Your Light,_

_For her soul is as bright as Andraste’s Flame._

_Holy and faithful and eager to know You,_

_She alone was unshaken by the darkness of this world._

_Let her know true peace._

_Let her know Your joy and love,_

_Stronger than any love she ever dreamed._

_She had no gift - she_ was _the gift._

_In Your name, Maker, take her back._

_...Until my time comes to an end,_

_When I may finally seek her hand in Your glory,_

_Take her,_

_Maker, bring her home._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prayers and incantations copied, paraphrased and/or based on [ Dragon Age's Chant of Light.](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light_verses)
> 
> "Soundtrack":  
> [ Theogony by Jo Blankenburg ](https://youtu.be/JaBI8FcskuM)  
> [ DA:O Mage Origin Cullen Romance Mod ](https://youtu.be/pHFHOLRrY5U)
> 
> Thank you to eravalefantasy for helping me concoct prayer verses.


End file.
